The Kid Who Ate Glue
by Elphie Marky
Summary: Mark and Roger's friendship from kindergarten through high school. MarkRoger FRIENDSHIP Yay my 100th story! Updated with ninth grade!
1. Kindergarten

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Mark Cohen was only four when he started kindergarten. His parents, and everyone else for that matter, seemed to think he was some sort of prodigy for learning to walk, talk, become potty trained, and learn his colors by age two. At three, he could read and almost print legibly. That's why he got to start school a year early.

He was the shortest one in his class, shorter than a four year old was supposed to be. But he managed academically. His height, or lack there of rather, and black wire-framed glasses set him apart from the rest of his classmates. He was okay being alone though. Besides, while the other little boys and girls found playing Hotwheels and Barbies fun, Mark found entertainment reading One Fish Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish over and over again.

Roger Davis was six when he started kindergarten. He did preschool twice. He didn't really like the other children, and he didn't hold back in showing his animosity towards the little boy who took his blue crayon. If Roger wanted the blue crayon, he got the blue crayon no matter what it took. His mom pulled him out before he gave another kid a black eye and started him again the next year after he turned five.

At six, he was a little taller than the other children, especially the scrawny, little blond who was always reading. His clothes always had rips and tears and his facial expression consisted of a scowl and narrowed eyebrows more often than not, making most of the other boys shy away. Roger never liked playing with those stupid cars anyway. Breaking crayons and eating glue was always more fun, even if he got a reprimand at the end of the day.

They were so different yet so alike at the same. Both anti-social for different reasons yet totally content with the lack of peer interaction. They didn't even want to be friends either, but they had no choice when the nice lady they called Miss Nancy took away Mark's book and Roger's crayons and glue. She sat them in the tiny, plastic blue chairs at their table and told them to talk. She walked away, leaving a helpless nerd with a scowling bully.

"I'm Mawk," the scrawny blond offered, figuring it was best to obey his teacher's wishes.

"Mawk?" the bully smirked.

"No, it's ahr," he corrected. Mark had always had some trouble saying his name.

"Mawk," Roger teased.

"Ma-ark," he said slowly, tears collecting in his eyes.

Roger saw the shiny look eyes got before they cried and the way lips always quivered when they wanted to whine on Mark's face. He had never made someone cry with his words before; usually, it took his hands against their back, knocking them off balance. He didn't want to make Mark cry. "Mark," he said. "I'm… sorry." Roger had never said sorry without being told a hundred times before. He had never actually meant it either. Usually it was a muttered apology, spoken because he had to.

Mark rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, wiping away the tears. "It's okay."

"Okay boys and girls!" Miss Nancy shouted from the front of the classroom. "It's craft time."

Fifteen little boys and girls got up from their toys and took a seat at their assigned table. Miss Nancy passed out foam shapes and paper plates and directed the children to glue the shapes onto the plate to make a pretty picture to hang out their refrigerator.

Mark set to work quickly, arranging the foam pieces into the shape of dog on his plate before he pasted them on.

Roger set to work quickly too. He picked up a square and dabbed some of the non-toxic Elmer's glue on the back. Instead of sticking the square on the paper plate as instructed, he stuck it on his cheek.

Mark didn't say anything until Roger stuck his finger in the glue. He then proceeded to lick his finger, a thoughtful expression plastered on his face. "Wager?" Mark asked, his childlike dialect preventing him from saying Roger correctly.

"Hm?"

"Whydja eat that? It's not food."

Roger shrugged. "It tastes good. I ate some yesterday when Miss Nancy wasn't looking."

"Can it make you sick?"

Roger shrugged. "I dunno. I ate it a few months ago and puked when I got home."

"Did you get sick yesterday?" Mark inquired.

Roger shook his head and licked a little bit more off his hand.

"Can I try some?" Mark's eyes were hopeful.

Roger looked from the bottle of glue in his hand to Mark's wide eyes. He could feel a dry taste in his mouth and a queasy feeling in my stomach. "No, I don't think you should eat it."

Mark's face fell. "Why not?"

"You might get sick, Mark," Roger reasoned. "I don't want you to be sick. You're my… friend. I don't want to hurt my friends." He offered a smile to the little blond to compensate.

Mark brightened, returning the smile. Roger said they were friends. Mark didn't have any friends. "Okay. But I don't want you to get sick either."

Roger nodded and put the glue down. The next time he picked it up, it was to glue some shapes on his plate. The third time it was to glue a triangle to Mark's forehead, sending both boys into fits of giggles.

Roger didn't expect to have friends in kindergarten. Roger expected everyone to be afraid of him. Roger didn't expect to be friends with anyone, much less the little boy with glasses who liked to read.

Mark didn't think he would ever be friends with someone like Roger. Mark had never known anyone as fearless as Roger who saw no qualms with blatantly disobeying the teacher. Mark had never expected to know a kid that ate glue, much less become friends with one.

But sometimes that's all it takes. A little push from a well-meaning teacher, some teasing, and an art project. And just like that, the intelligent little boy who stayed up way past his bedtime reading The Bernstein Bears became best friends with the rebellious kid who ate glue.

-fin


	2. First Grade

Disclaimer: I don't own Rent

First grade found Mark Cohen and Roger Davis sharing a double desk. Two nametags decorated the top. MARK was written in shiny red letters on piece of paper with baseballs around the edge. ROGER was printed neatly in blue letters, surrounded by fish and octopi.

They were best friends, spending recess, lunch, and playtime together. When they did addition problems with their "neighbor", Mark taught Roger how to count on his fingers for more difficult problems and how to use his "mental math machine" for simple questions like two plus two. Thanks to Mark's idea of playtime, Roger was one of the top readers in their class. Roger also shared his talents with Mark. Although he refused to mimic Roger's ability to disobey teachers without guilt, Mark's drawing skills improved greatly. He had advanced past the stick figure and moved on to markers and two-dimensional pictures. Mark also learned the phrase (much to his father's dismay) "Red Sox good, Yankees bad" from Roger and his love for baseball.

Sharing their talents and their time was something the boys had become accustomed too. They never really had to share material objects: each child was required to have their own supplies and there were enough toys to go around. Sharing was a difficult concept for most children their age, but it's just something any friendship has to deal with.

The children made their way down to the cafeteria, brown bags and lunch boxes in hand. Mark and Roger sat at the same table, across from two girls named Rachel and Maureen. They giggled a lot, which Roger found annoying.

The little boys and girls sat at their tables, placing their food in front of them. Mark placed his Spider-man lunchbox on the clean, white table and opened it up. Roger sat beside him and folded his hands neatly on the table, staring at them intently. He did not have a lunch today.

Mark placed his turkey and cheese sandwich on the towel he used as a placemat and looked over at his friend. "S'matter?"

"Nuthin'," Roger replied, his gaze fixated on his knuckles.

"Where's your lunch?" Mark tried again.

Roger shrugged. "Don't got it."

"How come?"

"Forgot it. I think it's still on my dining room table." He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Roger grimaced as his stomach rumbled loudly. "I'm starving though."

Mark looked from his friend to his own lunch. He pulled the Wonder Bread sandwich out of the baggie and broke it in half. He extended the bigger portion to Roger. "Here."

"Naw, Mark, I can't," he said. "That's your lunch. I'm stupid and forgot mine."

Mark shook his head. "You are not stupid." He placed the half of sandwich on the table in front of Roger. "You can have it, I don't mind."

"You sure?" He picked it up, taking a bite. "Thanks."

Mark nodded happily, his scrawny legs kicking back and forth. "I like sharing with my friends."

The boys ate silently while the two girls across from them giggled insanely. They also shared the homemade chocolate Mrs. Cohen had packed for Mark. Before long, there was only one particularly delicious cookie remaining.

"You can have it." Mark pushed the bag towards Roger.

"You barely got any, Mark," Roger countered, pushing them in the other direction. "And they're your cookies anyhow."

He shrugged. "I have more at home, I can eat one then. My mommy lets me have a snack before homework."

Roger nodded and reached into the bag. He examined the cookie carefully. It was fairly large with many chocolate chips. With two tiny hands, he snapped the cookie in half.

"Whatcha do that for, Wager?" Mark asked.

He extended the half a cookie to the little blond. "So you can have some too."

Mark accepted it in a small, pale hand and took a bite. "Thanks for sharing." He smiled brightly, a little piece of cookie caught in the gap where his tooth used to be.

Roger smiled back, a smile of lessons learned and selflessness. "It feels good."

Mark looked at him dubiously. "Cookies feel good?"

He giggled. "Sharing."

Mark chuckled his little boy laugh. "Yeah. Especially with your best friend."

Roger nodded in agreement. "I think I have the greatest best friend in the world."

"I think I do too."


	3. Second Grade

Disclaimer: I don't own Rent.

"These cars are so stupid," eight-year old Roger Davis said, tossing a plastic, blue Matchbox car at the toy bin in the tiny second grade classroom.

Mark, his best friend, nodded in agreement. "I'm glad my Mommy never bought me these to play with." The six year old tossed his car in the bin after Roger's.

"What do you play with?"

Mark shrugged. "Sometimes I read Dr. Suess to my Daddy or I play with my Star Wars action figures. What about you?"

"Well, if my dad leaves his lighter on the table, I go out back and burn ants."

Mark's eyes widened. "You play with… fire?"

Roger nodded. "I'm careful. I ain't never set nothin' on fire yet. I like banging spoons on pots too. I used to do it when I was real little. My mom said she'd get my drum lessons when I got bigger, but I said I wanted to play the guitar."

"The thing with strings?"

"Yep," Roger nodded. "I'm gonna be a rock star when I grow up." He made little noises with his mouth and mocked the air guitar.

Mark grinned. "I'll listen to your records and be your number one fan."

"Really?" Roger brightened.

Mark nodded vigorously. "I'll be just like my big sister Cindy. She's Carly Simon's biggest fan."

"My mom listens to her records when she's sad. And she sings real loud and it hurts my ears."

Mark giggled. "So does Cindy."

"Recess is almost over," Roger sighed. It was his favorite part of the day – talking to his friends and not learning.

"On Friday after school, my Mommy said I could invite a friend to come over and play. Do you wanna come over to my house and play?"

"Okie dokie," Roger replied.

--

After school on Friday, Mark led Roger out of school towards his mother's green and wood station wagon. Mrs. Cohen stood outside of the vehicle, leaning against the side. She smiled when she saw that two boys coming towards her.

"Hello, Mark dear. How was school?" She bent down to kiss her son's forehead, and take his school bag.

"Fine. This is my best friend Roger." He indicated towards the tall-for-his-age boy with dirty blonde hair and torn jeans who was standing next to him.

Mrs. Cohen smiled at him. "Hello dear, it's nice to meet you."

Roger smiled. "Hey."

--

"Would you boys like some cookies?" Mrs. Cohen asked, leading the boys inside the house with blue shingles and a white picket fence.

"Are they homemade chocolate chip?" Roger asked, remembering the cookies Mark had generously shared with him the previous year.

"Yes, they are," Mrs. Cohen insured.

"Yes I do want one," he followed her into the kitchen. "I mean, may I have one please?"

Mrs. Cohen smiled at Roger's attempt at manners. "Of course, dear."

Mark and Roger sat down at the kitchen table, Mark struggling to get his scrawny body up onto the chair. Mrs. Cohen placed two cookies and a glass of milk in front of each boy and sat down with a copy of the weekly magazine from the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center she subscribed to.

When he finished his cookies, Mark let out a tiny burp, both boys immediately breaking out into giggles.

"Mark," Mrs. Cohen warned with a soft smile.

"Excuse me."

"That was weak," Roger taunted with a grin, followed by a loud, obnoxious belch. He patted his chest and let out an "ah" for emphasis. Mark giggled louder.

Even Mrs. Cohen allowed herself to chuckle, but not until after, "Now what do you say?"

"Excuse me," Roger smiled politely.

"Why don't you two go upstairs and play?" Mrs. Cohen suggested, collecting the empty cups.

Mark led the way upstairs. Once at the top of the steps, the boys heard what sounded like a cat dying.

"What is that?" Roger asked.

"That's Cindy singing," Mark explained.

They listened closer. "YOU'RE SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO VAAAAAAAAINNNNN!" The singing was off key and not in time with the song.

"She sounds exactly like my mom," Roger mentioned.

Mark laughed. "This is my room." On the closed door, Roger saw a baseball plaque-type-thing that said 'Mark's Room' in red with a Yankees symbol on the bottom.

"I'm ashamed," he pointed at the small NY in the corner in mock disappointment.

"My daddy got that for me," Mark explained. "I actually really don't like baseball. It's boring."

"It's funner if you go to an actual game," Roger said. "My dad took me to a Red Sox and Yankees game when I was four and I've been the biggest fan since."

"That's cool," Mark replied. "I went to a Yankees game once and I fell asleep on my mommy's lap. Wanna go inside now?" Mark opened the door to his room, decorated mostly light blue. In the corner, there was a pile of toys, mostly super hero and Star Wars action figures and a few books. "Whattaya wanna play?"

"Wanna play soldier?" Roger asked.

"Okay," Mark replied. He walked over to a toy box and dug through, retrieving a small doll. "My aunt got me this for Hanukkah last year and I never got to play with it. I think his name is Joe."

Roger took the G.I. Joe doll from Mark. "He can be the eminy. Can you borrow a Barbie from your sister that can be a hostage?"

"Lemme see." Mark wandered down the hall to sneak into Cindy's room. Distracted by Carly Simon, Cindy didn't even notice her little brother slip into her room and leave with her favorite Barbie doll. "Got one," he waved it in the air.

"Cool." Roger set the G.I. Joe and the Barbie on the windowsill near Mark's bookshelf. "I'll be Sergeant Boo. You can be Colonel Hoo."

"Okay."

"Psht," he mimicked a walkie-talkie. "This is Sergeant Boo. Do you read me Colonel Hoo? Over."

"Phst. Yes."

"Psht. You're supposed to say Roger. Over."

"Wait, I thought I was supposed to call you Sergeant Boo?"

"You are. But when you hear me, you're supposed to say Roger."

"Oh. Psht. Roger."

"Psht. We're going to attack from the left and sneak up on the eminy. Over."

"Roger that."

The boys continued their game of soldier, diving around Mark's room and flopping off his bed. They eventually were able to rescue Cindy's Barbie, but not before the battle's only causality of Joe. After a long freefall from the windowsill to the azure blue carpet (or the Patlantic Ocean as Roger called it), Joe was pronounced dead and what Roger named World War Twelve was won by the Second Grade Army. Cindy's Barbie was safely returned to her bedroom, although Mark got an earful from his twelve-year-old sister about how it was wrong to kidnap Marina (which was apparently the Barbie's name. Roger didn't know Barbie's had names besides Barbie.)

The boys returned to Mark's room and sat down on the floor.

"That was really fun," Roger commented. "We should play again some time."

Mark nodded. "Yeah. You can come over again."

Roger's face lit up. "Cool." His eyes wandered to the pile of books in the corner of Mark's room. "Read me this?" He picked one up at random.

"Sure." Mark took the Dr. Suess book from Roger's grasp and opened it to the first page.

Roger scooted closer to Mark, leaning his head on his shoulder so he could see the pictures. After a few minutes of Mark's soothing voice dictating the tale of Sam's green breakfast, he could feel his eyelids begin to droop. He smiled sleepily as Mark read him into a dreamland of Green Eggs and Ham.


	4. Third Grade

Notes: 1. The bad grammar is supposed to be there, as you probably already knew. It'll go away soon. 2. Yes, Maureen is supposed to be obnoxious. 3. Jed Resnick rocks! 4. I don't own Rent.

* * *

"Boys and girls," Mrs. Hanson, the third grade teacher, called the class to order. "Does anyone know what Friday is?"

The annoying girl with curly brown hair that Roger absolutely could not stand began waving her hand wildly in the air.

"Yes, Maureen?"

"It's Valentine's Day!" She smiled excitedly. "Cupid comes and shoots you with an arrow and then you fall in love with your Prince Charming. That's what my mommy told me." She glanced over at Roger, winking her left eye.

Roger stuck his tongue out at her, and leaned over to Mark. "She looks she just got poked in the eye."

Mark giggled to himself and nodded. It did look like someone had jabbed their finger in her dark green eye.

"On Friday, you can bring in cards to hand out to your classmates. Maybe your crush will admit to liking you." She curved her wrinkled lips into a surprised face, smiling as the little third graders giggled madly.

--

This past year, Mrs. Cohen and Roger's mom, who Mark was to call Miss Anne, had allowed the boys to walk home since they only lived a block away from each other and six blocks away from school. Mark lived a little further, so his older sister Cindy would wait for him at Roger's corner.

On the way home that day, all Roger could do was complain. "That Maureen girl is so annoying."

Mark shrugged. "I don't really mind her. She traded her gummy worms for my chips one day at lunch last year. I thought that was really nice of her."

"Did you see the way she was looking at me? She looked so dumb." Roger shuddered a little. At nine, he wasn't really looking for a girlfriend anytime soon. "Girls are so gross."

"Yeah," Mark agreed. "I saw Cindy playing with her Barbies once and she was shoving their faces together. It was disgusting."

"I heard that girls have cooties," Roger mentioned.

"I don't doubt it."

--

Friday arrived and both boys were dropped off at school with brown paper bags filled with Valentines. Mrs. Cohen had attached little, red heart lollipops to Mark's cards, which were signed with a 'Sincerely, Mark Cohen'.

Roger's were racecar cards. His first name was written very large on all of them, barely legible.

"I can't believe my mom made me write these stupid cards," Roger dropped the bag on his desk. "They're so stupid."

"At least yours don't have Winnie the Pooh on them," Mark placed his bag neatly in the corner of his desk as he took his homework books out of his backpack and stacked them nicely inside his desk.

Roger haphazardly shoved his books and papers into his desk as well. "Yours have candy though. Candy's good."

"I don't really like lollipops," Mark said. "It was my mommy's idea."

"Hiiiiiii boooooooys."

Roger cringed as he heard 'the annoyingest voice ever' loudly in his ear. He said nothing."

"Hi, Maureen," Mark said with a smile. He didn't see what Roger hated so much about her. Sure, she was a little bit annoying, but she was really nice. "Here," he reached into his bag and handed Maureen a card.

"Oh my gosh!" she gushed. "Thank you so much Mark!" She pulled him into a tight squeeze. Mark choked a little and gasped for air when she finally let him go. "Wow I really wasn't expecting to get _any_ Valentines. That was soooo nice of you. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Here," Roger begrudgingly shoved a racecar card in her face.

"Oh my gooooshhhh!" She grabbed the card and hugged it. "Thank you soooo much."

"Uh huh."

"I made a card 'specially for you, Roger." She winked her eye again and thrust a card in his direction. Roger took it with a muttered thank you. He put his arms up to block her attempt at a hug.

"Ew, I don't want your gross cooties."

She pulled back, a hurt look on her face. "Fine," she said quietly so only Roger could hear her. She turned around quickly and scurried over towards that 'annoyinger redhaired chick' that Roger also hated, her shoulder length curls bouncing as she moved.

"That was real mean."

"I don't like her."

"Doesn't mean you gotta be mean to her."

"Yes it does." He looked at the card she had given him, feeling a little guilty about what he had said. Reading over the card, he looked up at Mark. "What's yours say?"

"She didn't give me one."

"How come?"

"'Cause she likes you and not me. Why, what's it say?"

"I'm not telling."

"Ooooh, is it real romantic?" Mark's eyes widened and his smile brightened. His face got giddy as he peered at Roger through his glasses. "Tell me."

Roger sighed and succumbed, handing the card to Mark. "Don't read it out loud, kay?"

Mark nodded and examined it. It was a blank piece of paper, not an actual card. It was light pink with darker red hearts outlining the page. Mark carefully read over the words. Eight words.

Dear Roger,

I like you.

From, Maureen Johnson

Mark smiled as he handed the paper back. "Aw," he said quietly.

"Shut up," Roger narrowed his eyes. "Girls are gross."

"You should 'pologize to her, even if you don't like her back."

"I don't wanna."

Mark smiled deviously.

Roger didn't like that look. The look that said he knew something he shouldn't. "I don't like the way you're looking at me."

"You like her."

"Nuh-uh!" Roger cried defensively. "That's gross. Ew, didn't you hear me when I said that girls got cooties?"

"You liiiike her," Mark taunted.

"No I don't!" he yelled back, attracting a few stares. He collapsed into his seat, speaking no more. Mark thought it was best to drop the subject.

--

On Monday, Roger was in a strange mood.

"At recess, I gotta talk to someone, so I can't play with you the whole time," Roger explained to Mark before school started.

"Okay," Mark replied. He could probably play with the little boy who sat behind him. Roger didn't say what he was doing at recess, but Mark had a good idea of what he might be doing.

At the beginning of recess, Roger got up and walked to the other side of the room, the side of the room where Maureen sat. Mark smiled when he saw Roger go over, but let him be and just went to play with the other boy until Roger came back.

"Didja 'pologize?" Mark asked when Roger came back.

He sat down and nodded. "Yep."

"What she say?"

"I said I was sorry for being mean to her and that I didn't really mean it when I said she had cooties. I told her that her card was real nice too. She said she didn't like me no more because she said I was a butthead. I said that was okay because I really don't like her either but I would be her friend if she wanted. She said she'd think about it because she doesn't wanna be friends with a butthead."

"Oh."

Roger shrugged. "At least she doesn't like me no more."

"Yeah."

"Do you think she'll be my friend though?"

"I dunno," Mark replied. "You were kinda a butthead to her. She's right."

"I know."

"I'll always be your friend though, even if you are a butthead sometimes."

Roger smiled. "Good because I'd rather be your friend than her boyfriend any day."


	5. Fourth Grade

Notes: Dedicated to cameragirl and her clay elephant.  
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent.

Mark developed his love of the arts in fourth grade. It was his first introduction to an art class and at only eight years old, he wanted to explore. The class was only one day a week. On Friday's, instead of having science class, the children walked two by two in nice, straight lines down the hallway towards the art room. In the beginning of the year, the art projects were basic: coloring, cutting things out, and gluing other things together. After winter break, the class moved on to more advanced projects. This week it was sculpting. Mark, Roger, and ever other little kid in the classroom had played with Play Dough when they were younger, but this was real clay. The kind of clay that real artists used.

It was hard for Mark to hide his excitement that Friday. A week prior, Mrs. Jackson, the art teacher, announced that the children would be using clay. Mark slid through the week, counting down the days until he could feel the smooth, cold clay squish against his fingers. He planned his sculpture carefully, pinpointing every curve and bend carefully in his mind.

Roger, on the other hand, did not see what was so great about Friday art classes. He passed it off as a waste of time because "art is stupid", but Mark knew it was because Roger wasn't really that good. Mrs. Jackson even told him that he didn't have "an artistic eye" because his popsicle stick bridge was just a stack of popsicle sticks glued together. Mark thought that was a really mean thing to say, especially since the next thing out of her mouth was a compliment on Mark's near-perfect toothpick replica of the Eiffel Tower. Roger had replied with a simple, "I am too good at art. Music is an art," before sticking his finger in the bottle of glue and taking a lick. He was past his glue-eating days of kindergarten, but Roger never missed an opportunity to aggravate a teacher. Mrs. Jackson walked away, obviously disgusted, while Mark almost destroyed his Parisian monument in fits of laughter.

Mark and Roger walked down the hall side by side in silence. Mark was too busy daydreaming about his sculpture while Roger was listening in on Maureen's conversation. Apparently, she was going to make a clay sculpture of the boy she liked. Roger's ears perked as she told the red-haired girl next to her his name, but he let out a sad little sigh when she said his name was William.

"What are you going to sculpt?" Mark asked, bringing Roger back.

"Dunno."

"I'm going to make an elephant blowing it's trunk up in the air," Mark explained excitedly, even though he knew Roger could care less. "I saw one doing that at the zoo when I was little. My mom took a picture of it and I really like looking at it."

"Uh huh."

The children arrived in Mrs. Jackson's art room and sat down in their assigned spots on benches at long tables. In front of each child was a generous lump of clay with the only instruction of "sculpt."

Mark quickly set to work, molding his lump into shape. A funny shaped circle soon became an egg-shaped torso. Mark placed it aside, making four identical legs. He attached them to the torso, adjusting the shape appropriately. He glanced over at Roger's artwork while he began the head.

Roger had set out to make a clay pretzel. He finished in under two minutes, happy with his final project. It was better than what he usually produced in art class. At least this looked like the real thing. Satisfied with his work, he leaned back to admire it.

"What do you think?"

Mark looked up from shaping his elephant's trunk. "It looks edible," he replied. "Actually, it looks so edible I'm hungry."

Roger laughed, finally proud of something he had produced in this classroom.

Mrs. Jackson, however, was not so pleased with Roger's pretzel. "That's too simple. Do something else."

"I like it."

"Are you the teacher?"

"Is it _your_ project?" Roger's voice stayed calm as he back-talked to the teacher. Being disrespectful to a teacher never really phased him, no matter how many notes were sent home or how many recesses were spent at his desk in silence.

Mrs. Jackson was appalled at Roger's rudeness and obvious contempt towards her. "Is this how you talk to your mother?"

"No."

"Then why do you talk like that to me?"

"Because you aren't my mother," his tone had not changed and he showed no sign of giving in. "My mother isn't a bitch."

Mark's eyes widened and he let out a tiny gasp when he heard Roger utter "the b-word." If Mark ever said the b-word in front of an adult or even at all, he knew he'd be over his father's knee getting a spanking. Mark had gotten spanked once and decided he really did not enjoy it. That was the first and last time he wiped mashed potatoes all over the kitchen wall and hid his serving of carrots in Cindy's pillowcase.

Mrs. Jackson was lost for words; no student had ever uttered a swear word in front of her, implying that she was that word. Roger Davis was known by most teachers to be mouthy, but he had never cursed at a teacher. "I… did you… I… what did… see me after class, Davis."

Roger nodded, obviously angry. He had never been referred to as Davis before. He decided then that he did not like it. He'd rather go by the name of his mother's father than that of his own father's.

At the end of class, Mark and the rest of the students took their completed sculptures to Mrs. Jackson. She was going to bake them later that day. On Monday during science, the children were going to pick them up to take home. Roger stayed in his seat while the other children left the room, leaving Mark to walk back to class by himself.

--

On Saturday, Roger invited Mark over his house to play. Miss Anne greeted him and directed him up to Roger's room. Mark said hi to Roger's dad as well, but received a grunt of acknowledgement in return.

"Hey."

Roger looked up. "Hi Mark." He didn't look happy. He was idly picking at the strings of the guitar Santa had brought him last Christmas.

Sitting across from him, Mark asked, "Did you get in trouble from Mrs. Jackson?"

"She yelled at me for being disrespectful and gave me a note to give to my mom," he explained. "I told my mom what she said to me and how she always tells me I'm bad at art and compares me to you. My mom said that wasn't right because not everyone is good at art like that."

Mark nodded. "Did you get in trouble from your parents?"

"My mom wasn't mad. She was proud of me for sticking up for myself but my dad said he was gonna wash my mouth out with soap. Then he smacked me when I told him that I learnt that word from him and called me a liar."

"Oh."

Roger rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, wincing a little. He shrugged and struck a chord. "At least next year art is a 'lective and only the people good at it have to suffer through it."

"I'm taking it," Mark said. "Mrs. Jackson says I have a good eye for the arts. She suggested I look into photography."

"Like picture taking?"

"Yeah," Mark replied.

Roger nodded, looking a little hurt that he didn't have the artistic talent that Mark possessed. In first grade, Roger was good at drawing. He had taught Mark how to draw two-dimensional figures. Mark had taken away his talent. In that moment, he resented Mark, even if they were best friends.

--

On Monday, instead of learning about plants and seeds, the children shuffled down the hallway towards Mrs. Jackson's art room. A baked clay figure sat at each assigned seat. Mark and Roger made their way towards their table to find Mark's lifelike elephant and Roger's pretzel.

"Boys and girls," the teacher was standing by Mark, "I'd like to call your attention to Mark Cohen's artwork." After the boys and girls oohed and aahed at Mark's elephant and Mrs. Jackson delivered endless compliments, she smiled at the blushing blond and set the elephant gently on the table.

Mark smiled in satisfaction. He had finally found something that he liked and excelled in. He turned to Roger, finding an unwelcoming scowl spelling out jealousy and contempt. "Roger?"

"Who cares about a stupid elephant anyway?" He reached over and picked up Mark's elephant.

The little boy's eyes widened as he watched his best friend manhandle his precious work. "Be careful, clay breaks easily."

"Good," Roger retracted his arm like he had seen so many Red Sox pitchers do in the games he watched religiously on television. Pushing forward, the clay elephant left his hand and hit the wall with a thunderous crack. Mark's project lay shattered on the floor.

--

The next day, Roger wasn't in school. After the incident, he had been dragged by Mrs. Jackson to the principal's office. He did not return to class. Mark was left sobbing in the art room, gathering the remaining pieces of his prized elephant.

On Wednesday, Roger was back in school. Mark refused to speak to him. They shared a double desk, but Mark stared straight ahead, not once glancing towards the side to see Roger. At recess, Mark played with Maureen and her redheaded friend. He didn't know her name and didn't really want to know either.

On Thursday, Mark noticed a dark purple ring around Roger's right eye. Still, they did not speak.

On Friday, they were together again in art class. They sat next to each other in silence, drawing their family portraits. Mark accepted the compliments on Cindy's realistic hair and the exquisite choice of coloring for his mother's dress with a simple grunt and a nod. Roger did not receive a compliment; the teacher simply ignored him. When she left their table, Roger spoke.

"Mark?"

His word was met with cold, icy blue eyes and an angry glare. No words.

"I'm sorry I ruined your elephant."

Mark nodded. "Whatever." He went back to his picture, diligently coloring perfectly inside the lines.

"No, listen, I'm really sorry," he tried again. "Even sorrier than when I made fun of you back in kindergarten."

Mark looked back at his best friend – or former best friend, he corrected himself. He saw the tears brimming in his eyelids as Roger desperately fought them back. He noticed the dark circle on his eye. The black eye he had probably gotten from his father for being sent home early. "You promise you're sorry?"

Roger nodded. "Yeah. I missed being your friend."

Mark looked back down. "I don't know if I believe you."

"Please?" Roger's voice cracked and a silent tear rolled down his cheek. "Please Mawk?"

Mark stopped. He giggled slightly and looked into the other boy's eyes. "Did you just call me Mawk?"

Roger paused at his mistake. "_No_!" he replied defensively. "I mean, yeah." He tried to smile, but the tears made it hard.

Mark smiled. "Okay. I believe you, Wager." He laughed, recalling the lisp Roger had teased him for when they first became friends.

Roger chuckled too, content that he had won Mark back. He smiled on the inside, knowing that the pain of his father's hand against his eye wasn't nearly as bad as the aching he had felt on the inside over almost losing his best friend for good. Just as Mark had gathered up the broken fragments of his shattered elephant, Roger had picked up the pieces of his broken friendship. One by one, they fell in place, completing the jigsaw puzzle that was Mark and Roger's dramatically, colorful friendship.


	6. Fifth Grade

**Notes:** Sorry this took forever to get out. I had finals all last week and this week... if you have the Sims, you know how addicting it is! Anyways, here is fifth grade. Roger's dad is a meanie-weenie, just a little warning. Oh and blah blah blah I don't own Rent.

* * *

Mark and Roger stood in the front of their fifth grade classroom, all eyes on them. Their teacher stood in the corner, speller in hand. She stared at the two boys. Mark was nervously staring at the ground. Roger was next to him, not a care in the world. This didn't matter nearly as much to him as it did to Mark. Roger was just happy to still be standing up there, especially next to someone as intelligent as Mark.

"If Roger spells this word correctly, he wins the spelling bee," the teacher announced.

Roger took a deep breath and look up at his teacher, emerald eyes begging for a word. He knew he was about nine or ten letters away from the prize – a coveted homework pass. How he longed for a night free of long division and sentence diagrams.

"Are you ready?"

Roger nodded eagerly. He could feel the eyes of his classmates and Mark burning onto him, increasing the pressure.

"Poppycock."

Roger opened his mouth to begin, but stopped. Raising an eyebrow, he cast a sideways glance at his teacher. "Can you repeat that?"

She rolled her eyes. "The word is poppycock."

Roger nodded, suppressing the urge to grin. "Poppycock," he repeated. "P-O-P-P-Y-C-O-" he paused. He considered the amount of dirty vocabulary he acquired from his father, wondering if he could apply it to this word or if it was unacceptable to use it in a fifth grade spelling bee. "C-K," he finished, going for it anyway. "Poppy_cock_."

The class giggled a little at the emphasis on the final syllable of his assigned word.

"That is correct, Roger," the teacher said. "Congratulations!"

Roger smiled. He had never won anything academically before. He was happy, almost proud of himself. He turned to look at Mark, who much to Roger's surprise was smiling. Mark was happy for him too.

"Good job." Mark grinned, proud of his best friend.

Roger accepted a colorful certificate and his homework pass. For the rest of the day, he was riding on a cloud of glee.

--

When Roger arrived home, his dad was on the couch watching television and his mother was in the kitchen.

"Mom, guess what!" Roger announced happily.

She appeared in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel. "What, sweetie?" she asked with a smile.

"I won the spelling bee today in school." He reached in his backpack and extracted the bright certificate and handed it to his mother.

She smiled down at him. "Great job, honey. How about we put this on the fridge?" She put her arm around her son's shoulders, leading him into the kitchen before his father could make a snide comment about those that normally enter spelling bees.

While his mom placed his award on the fridge, Roger climbed onto the counter to search for an after-school snack. "Mom, what's this?" He pulled out a box from the cabinet.

"It's popcorn," she replied.

"Called Poppycock?"

"Roger…" she warned, catching his drift. He was far too wise on that subject for an eleven year old. "It's just a snack."

"This was the word I had to spell to win the spelling bee," he said, digging into the box. "Mmm," he shoved a handful in his mouth. "I'm surprised they put food in the book."

"It also means nonsense," his mom informed. "The food is named appropriately, don't you think? Nonsense food that'll spoil your dinner." She smiled, taking the box away from him.

He laughed. "Can I eat over Mark's tonight? He invited me to sleepover too since it's Friday."

"Is it okay with his mom?"

Roger nodded in response.

"Okay, we're just having leftovers anyway," she consented. "Go tell Daddy about your award."

Roger nodded, leaving the kitchen. He knew how much his father would care about winning the spelling bee – not at all. "Hey Dad," he entered the other room. "I won the spelling bee at school today." He sat down on the other side of the couch.

"Really?" The balding man sat up a little.

Roger nodded with a smile. Maybe his dad did care.

"Did you have to beat out a bunch of retards to win?"

Maybe not. Roger's face fell. "No. I beat Mark. Mark's the smartest kid in our class."

"Aren't you a year ahead of everyone else? Shouldn't _you_ be the smartest kid in your class?"

He sighed. "Never mind. Forget I told you." He stood up and sulked upstairs to gather up his sleeping bag. Stuffing his pajamas, toothbrush, and slippers into his bag, he figured he should bring his old teddy bear along. He knew he was too big for it, but Sir Robert really did help to have around when Roger was upset or when Roger's dad was angry at him. He dragged the overnight bag, a sleeping bag, and his pillow downstairs.

Leaving it in the doorway, he went back to the kitchen to say goodbye to his mother. His father was also in the kitchen when Roger came back down. "I'm leaving now," he said.

"Where do you think you're going at dinnertime?" his father interjected.

"Mark invited Roger to his house for a sleepover," his mother explained.

He nodded. "What word did you have to spell to beat out the little queer? 'The'?" He snickered.

Roger's eyes narrowed. "Don't say that about Mark," he was almost shouting. "And it was a big word." He turned to grab his award from the fridge. He pulled it down quickly, tearing the edge. Grabbing his overnight things and his beat up Red Sox hat, he darted out of the house to the sound of his parents' shouts and didn't even look back on the one block trip to Mark's house.

--

Mrs. Cohen was surprised to find a tear-stained little boy standing on her doorstep a few minutes before dinner. "Roger? What's wrong?"

He sniffled. "Mark invited me over. Can I come in?"

Smiling, she ushered the little boy inside. "Mark is setting the table. Why don't you go help him and I'll put your things upstairs?"

Roger nodded. Still clinging to his certificate, he walked inside and into the kitchen. Mark and his father were at the already set table.

"Hi," he offered his greeting. He quietly took a seat next to Mark.

"Hello Roger," Mr. Cohen greeted. "Mark told me about the spelling bee. Congrats."

Roger tried to smile at him. At least someone's dad cared. "Thanks," he muttered.

"Something wrong?"

"No." He placed his award across his plate.

"That's a nice award," Mr. Cohen commented.

"Can I put it on your refrigerator?" Roger asked.

Mr. Cohen nodded.

Roger selected a magnet of a tropical fish and placed it near the ripped edge of his certificate. When he got back to his chair, he politely removed his hat and hung it on the post of the tall dining chair. He sat down quietly, not making a peep during dinner – not even to defend his beloved Sox against Mr. Cohen's Yankees.

--

"You okay?" Mark asked once they were in the solace of his room. "You aren't yourself."

"My dad."

Mark nodded. "What happened?"

Roger told him almost everything, changing his father's words a little and leaving the part about Mark being a queer out. Mark didn't need to hear that part. There was no reason his father shouldn't like Mark – he was nothing but polite while over his house. Maybe Mr. Davis envied Mark because he was so much smarter than him and his son, although Roger wasn't too far behind Mark academically anymore.

"I'm proud of you, even if your dad isn't," Mark said. "I told my parents and they were happy for you too."

"Does what my dad thinks about me matter at all?" Roger asked. From what he learned from an assembly a few weeks ago, people that put you down aren't worth listening to.

"Does what he thinks about you matter to you?" Mark countered.

Roger thought about it. Mr. Davis thought Roger should play baseball, have a girlfriend, and be a man. Real men don't play music. Real men play baseball. Roger liked baseball well enough and played for the local sports club, but he wasn't very good. He didn't really care because he had fun, but Mr. Davis cared. "No. It doesn't. What he thinks about me is…," Roger grinned, "poppycock."

Mark smiled "Yeah."

The boys settled down into their sleeping bags, about to go to sleep. Before they drifted off, Mrs. Cohen appeared in the doorway. "Boys, would you like an almost midnight snack?"

They sat up eagerly. It was rare to stay up past ten thirty at Mark's house. Now at ten thirty-nine, they boys trekked downstairs in almost matching pajamas. As a Christmas present for Roger and Hanukkah present for Mark, Mr. Cohen had bought Yankees pajamas for Mark and Red Sox pajamas for Roger (which almost killed him to purchase).

When they reached the kitchen, all the boys could do was laugh. A box of Poppycock popcorn sat on the table with a bowl for each boy.

"What?" Mrs. Cohen asked. "Would you like something else?" Apparently, Mark hadn't mentioned the word Roger won with.

"No, Mrs. Cohen, this is fine," Roger said. "Poppycock is my favorite."


	7. Sixth Grade

**Disclaimer:** None of it's mine.  
**Notes:** Dedicated to cameragirl for giving me the idea about the foul ball and to my younger sister who requested that Mark say "whoopsy daisies" (and because I got a lot of the ideas for this chapter at her graduation mass).

* * *

Roger was all smiles the Monday after his birthday. At lunchtime, the sixth graders made their way downstairs to the cafeteria, Roger still quiet about his happiness.

"You okay?" Mark asked, biting into his turkey sandwich.

"I'm fine," Roger replied, peeling apart his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and crinkling his nose.

"How was your birthday?"

"Awesome," he answered, his smile getting bigger. "My parents got me four tickets to the Yankees vs. Red Sox game on Saturday."

Mark looked up. "That's cool."

"Yeah, there's an extra ticket though. I'm allowed to take one of my friends."

"Do you know who you're going to ask?" Mark put his sandwich down and looked over at his best friend.

"I was thinking about asking this blond kid I know. He's really scrawny and dorky. He has black glasses. You know him?"

"I think so."

"He doesn't like baseball much. Do you think he'll still want to go with me?"

"I think he does."

--

Roger's dad drove the family to Mark's house to pick him up before the game. He waited in the car while Roger and his mom went to the door to speak to the Cohens.

"Hi, Roger," Mark said when he answered the door.

Roger gaped. "That is… I am … oh my god… I'm ashamed."

"My dad made me wear it," Mark said.

"Doesn't he look nice in it?" Mr. Cohen teased, appearing behind his son.

Roger shook his head. He was wearing a brand new Red Sox hat, also part of his birthday gift. "I brought my old one for Mark to wear." He turned around and took the hat from his mother's hands. Removing the Yankees hat from Mark's head and handing it to Mr. Cohen, Roger put the oversized hat on Mark's head. "Much better."

Mr. Cohen laughed. "Have fun boys."

"Bye Daddy." Mark hugged him quickly before darting out the door and into the old pick up truck that would take them to the game.

--

Mark hadn't been to a baseball game since he was four years old. That was his first and only game, and he had fallen asleep on his mother's lap. When they arrived at Yankee Stadium, Mark looked around in aw of the large ballpark.

"Wow," he muttered.

"Psh, this is nothing compared to Fenway Park," Roger shrugged off Mark's amazement.

"Fenway?"

"Where the Sox play," Roger explained, forgetting that Mark was baseball illiterate. "We got real good seats," he added. "Right behind home plate. It's a great view of the field."

"Cool," he said, following the Davis family to their seats. They were down far, very close to home plate. When they arrived, the Yankees were wrapping up batting practice.

"It's gonna start soon," Roger began fidgeting in his seat. He kept taking the baseball mitt he brought on and off his left hand.

"We're going to get peanuts and soda," Mr. Davis announced. "You boys stay here."

Roger nodded and began explaining the main points of the game to Mark. By the time Roger's parents arrived with refreshments, Mark knew about balls, strikes, RBIs, Roger's favorite Red Sox players, and the appropriate obnoxious cheers to shout while the Yankees batted.

Mr. Davis handed each boy a bag of peanuts and Miss Annie gave the boys a soda. Before they could begin eating, the commentators announced that the national anthem was to be sung.

Everyone in the park stood up and removed their hats, placing them across their hearts as a young woman belted The Star Spangled Banner. Afterwards, the batting order was announced and the New York Yankees took the field. The firs three Sox batting struck out, a one-two-three inning.

While the Yankees batted, Roger's dad shouted obscenities at both the batters and the Red Sox pitcher who seemed incapable of throwing strikes.

Roger and Mark ate their peanuts and ignored the other half of the inning.

Mark's peanut shells were collecting on his lap; he was unsure of what to do with them. One of them fell onto the floor. "Whoopsy daisies," he reached down to pick it up, the rest of the peanut shells falling to the ground after the first.

"Mark, what are you doing?" Roger leaned over to get a better look.

"I dropped one and the rest fell," he explained, picking them up.

"You're supposed to throw them on the ground when you're done," Roger explained, as if it were common sense to just throw things on the ground.

"Oh." He dropped the collected shells back onto the ground and sat up.

Mark found the game very interesting, while Roger found in frustrating. By the sixth inning, the score was 8-1 with the Yankees in the lead. The Red Sox were up now with Roger's favorite player at the plate.

Carl Yastrzemski, the left-handed first baseman, stood at the plate, ready to swing. Swinging his bat, a deafening crack rang out as he made contact. The ball sailed up and back, a foul ball. It made its way over the netting behind the batting cage and towards where Roger was sitting. Eyes wide, he positioned his glove like he did while in the outfield for the local baseball team. The ball was coming closer and closer, straight for them.

Unfortunately, the first place it hit was Mr. Davis's head. After he fell back into his seat, the ball fell right into the center of Roger's open glove.

"Oh my god!" he screamed. "I caught the ball! Mark! Mom! Dad!"

"Good job, sweetie," his mom congratulated.

"You couldn't have caught it before it hit me?" Mr. Davis grumbled from his seat, rubbing the growing lump on his forehead.

Determined not to let his father ruin his day, Roger ignored him. Turning to his best friend, he said, "Look Mark!"

"That's awesome, Rog."

A few other Sox fans surrounding them also shouted "good catch, kid" and other words of praise to Roger. He was beaming for the rest of the game, even though the final score was 11-2 Yankees.

"I'll be right back," Roger said as the game commenced. Grabbing Mark's arm, he led him down towards the Red Sox dugout. Climbing on top of it, he crawled to the opening where the players could see him. Mark stood by the empty seats behind the dugout.

"Hey Mr. Yastrzemski," he called, catching the attention of his favorite player. The player turned to look at him. "Can you sign this for me? Please? It's my birthday." He figured it would be okay to stretch the truth a little bit. His real birthday was a week ago, but this was his present.

"What are you doing up there?" He walked closer to Roger.

"Trying to get you to sign this," he waved the ball. "I caught your foul ball."

"All by yourself?" Yastrzemski smiled at him.

"Well, it hit my dad in the head first."

He laughed. "Send him my apologies." Getting closer, he leaned up and took the ball from Roger. "What's your name, kid?" Roger told him. Disappearing into the dugout, Yastrzemski returned a moment later. He gently tossed the ball to Roger. It now said, "Happy birthday Roger. Carl Yastrzemski."

Roger was beaming. "Thanks, mister!" He turned to show Mark. "Hey, Mark! Look!"

"Wait, who's that?" Yastrzemski hadn't seen the other little boy before.

"This is my best friend Mark," Roger explained.

"Hold on a minute." Yastrzemski disappeared in the dugout yet again, returning with another ball. "Here, kid." He rolled it along the dugout to Mark's tiny hand.

"Thank you," he said with a timid smile.

"See ya kids," Yastrzemski gave a final wave before heading out with the rest of the team.

The boys ran back up to Roger's parents, their signed baseballs in hand. Both were glowing.

"Mr. Yastrzemski says he's sorry for hitting you, Dad," Roger said as they left the park.

His parents just laughed.

By the time they were back in the car, it was already late. During the long drive back to Scarsdale, the two boys fell asleep in the backseat of the car, Mark's head resting on Roger's shoulder.

Mr. Cohen, who was waiting for his son's return on the front porch, stood up when he saw the green pick up pull into his driveway.

Although it was difficult for all three adults to separate the boys and disrupt the peacefulness of their sleep, Mr. Cohen unbuckled his son and lifted him out of the car. Although he was ten, Mark was still small enough for his dad to hold. Waking slightly, he drowsily looked around before his head collapsed back into his father's shoulder. Mr. Cohen thanked Roger's parents for taking Mark to the ballpark before putting his little boy to bed.

When Roger arrived at home, his father led his sleepy body upstairs and into bed. Roger didn't even bother to get changed.

Although they were a block away from each other, both boys nodded off with their caps askew on their heads and their hands holding an iron grip on their autographed souvenirs.


	8. Seventh Grade

**Notes:** Sorry, this would have been posted Thursday, but FFN wouldn't let me upload and I wasn't home yesterday. So, here is chapter eight at last. Also, there's mentions of domestic violence in this chapter.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own it.

* * *

Seventh grade was an important year for both Mark and Roger. The new grade meant many things, academically, socially, and personally.

For Mark, seventh grade meant honors classes. He could finally learn the wonders of algebraic equations and read classics, such as Harper Lee's _To Kill A Mockingbird_. Seventh grade meant he was eleven – finally old enough to take photography classes at the community center instead of trudging around his house capturing dinner preparations and homework. It also meant that Cindy would be graduating from high school and going (hopefully far, far) away to college the next summer.

In Roger's book, seventh grade meant respect and honor from the younger kids. The sixth graders would long to be just like him in every aspect. It meant he was old enough – in his mother's opinion – to start taking real guitar lessons. He could start a band if he wanted too. In his father's eyes, he should have a girlfriend. Seventh grade meant that the thirteen year old would be more independent. As the screams, yells, shouts, and fighting increased, Roger was on his own to get his work done and take care of himself. Seventh grade meant more black eyes and more empty bottles in the recycling bin the next morning.

Mark's first day of photography classes started the same day as school. He walked beside Roger towards the large, gray middle school with his blue schoolbag on his back and his camera bag clutched to his chest. His smile illuminated to foggy morning.

"You know, I'm in honors algebra with you," Roger said. It was the first words he uttered to Mark all morning. "I didn't think I was smart enough."

"Sure you are," Mark assured. "If you have any trouble, I could help you. Cindy took it in ninth grade and said it was easy."

He shrugged, removing his left hand from his pocket to rub a developing bruise over his eye.

"What happened?" Mark noticed the purple-black circle around his eye.

"I, uh…" he trailed off. "I walked into a door."

"Oh." Mark nodded, not pressing Roger for what really happened, although he already knew where the black eye came from. "Be careful, those things will jump out at you."

Roger snickered. "Yeah, they do." He noticed the bag that Mark was holding tightly and changed the subject. "What's that?" He gestured toward the black bag.

"My camera," he replied. "Classes start today."

Roger nodded and the boys walked the rest of the way in silence.

--

Honors algebra wasn't as great as Mark thought it was going to be. He tried to tell himself that Mrs. Brake was just starting the class off easy because it was the first day, but he was a bit disappointed that all they did was review the order of operations.

Roger was not disappointed in the least. Rather, he was thrilled that he knew what was going on. He silently thanked his mother for teaching him the PEMDAS method when he was younger and needed help with basic problems. He even almost convinced himself that he really did belong in the class. At least, he told himself, he belonged in the class more than Maureen Johnson, who was currently arguing with the teacher that it was impossible to add and multiply in the same problem and that x was not a number. Roger laughed to himself.

--

After Mark breezed through his homework and wolfed down his dinner, his mother drove him in the old family station wagon to the community center. She walked Mark inside, although he insisted he was old enough to walk on the sidewalk and enter through a door by himself.

"Oh, Mark, look," Mrs. Cohen caught his attention. She was looking at a sign. "They're offering tango lessons here this fall."

"Are you going to sign up?" a new voice asked.

Mark looked behind him and saw Nanette, the Rabbi's daughter. "Uh, no, I'm taking photography classes instead."

"That's a shame, we could be partners," she smiled.

Mark didn't like Nanette much. He knew her from Temple and their parents were friends. He didn't want to spend time with her, much less take dance lessons. "Too bad."

"Mark!" Mrs. Cohen scolded. "I think it would be good for you to get out of the house. Rabbi, where are the sign-ups?"

The Rabbi led Mrs. Cohen to another room, leaving Mark alone with Nanette.

"Well, I have class," he excused himself from the situation, darting towards the dark room to learn about film, aperture, light meters, and lenses.

--

Although the math was simple, Roger found the problems difficult to solve with the background noise of his parents' shouts. Nonetheless, he finished his work around the time he assumed that Mark would be in his own little heaven fiddling with a camera. He rolled over on his bed, casting a look at his guitar. He retrieved it from the other side of his room and played around with the knobs in an attempt to tune it. He was never good at tuning his guitar and hoped to learn how to once his lessons began next month.

When his guitar was as close to in tune as he could get it, Roger began picking out a few songs he had taught himself. It wasn't very entertaining, but it drowned out the fighting until he was called downstairs to dinner.

--

As the school year progressed, Roger spent more and more time at the Cohen household. He was welcomed in any time for dinner or a sleepover. Although they never let on to Roger or Mark, Mr. and Mrs. Cohen knew Roger's father wasn't the nicest dad around.

Oftentimes, Roger came home with Mark and the boys did their homework in the kitchen. They did their math homework together, since it was the same assignment and because Roger appreciated the assistance from Mark. He was finally starting to believe that he was smart, good at something.

Roger stayed for dinner often, sleeping over most weekends. During the week, Mrs. Cohen wouldn't allow Mark – or Cindy – to have friends stay over past dinner. After supper, Mark would walk Roger the block home, making sure he got in okay.

On this particular Thursday, Roger was reluctant to trudge home alone. Mark had photography class on Thursdays, meaning Roger left by himself after dinner. Backpack over his shoulder, he slowly made the journey home.

The math tests on slope and y equals equations had been returned today. While Mark had received a satisfying grade of a 97, Roger was not happy with his 64. He had failed another test, although this was the first failure in algebra. His other poor marks were in science and reading. Because he was in honors algebra, he was required to have one of his parents sign his test.

"Mom, I'm home," Roger called from the doorway as he entered.

"I'm in here," she called from the kitchen.

He followed the sound of her voice and sat down at the table. He watched his mother clean up the dishes of the small dinner she had made for herself and Roger's dad. "Where's Dad?" he inquired, although he really didn't care much for his father's well being.

"He went out," she answered, turning to face her son. "Said he'd be back around eight."

"Are you okay?" Roger scrutinized his mother's face carefully.

"I'm fine, honey. How was school?"

"You have a black eye." Roger ignored her question. "It wasn't there this morning when I went to school."

"I tripped at work," she answered.

"No you didn't." Roger shook his head. "Dad hit you. Again."

She sighed. "I'm fine, Roger." Her tone had changed

He wanted to press the subject, but he knew better. "I, um, got that test back. The hard one I told you about the other day."

"Oh? How did you do?"

"Not well," Roger answered, fumbling through his backpack for the test. He handed it to his mother. "Can you sign it and not tell Dad?"

She took the test and a pen, scribbling her name near the 64 and nodding at Roger's request.

"I'm going to talk to Mark tomorrow and see if he'll help me and show me what I'm doing wrong."

She nodded. "I actually remember this from high school," she replied. "Want me to try and help?"

Roger smiled. He knew his mother hadn't finished high school (although that was partly because of Roger arriving mid-junior year), but he knew she had always loved math. "Okay."

The two sat at the table, tackling all of the problems Roger had done wrong. Pretty soon, he was a whiz at rise over run and every other element on the test. They hadn't even noticed the time fly and Mr. Davis enter the house.

"What's going on?" He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, near the refrigerator.

Roger looked up. "Nothing, Mom's just helping me with my homework." He tried to cover the grade and return the paper to his math folder.

"Whatever happened to asking me for help?" he asked with scorn.

"You weren't home," Roger replied. "Mom offered."

"Let me see it, I bet she's doin' it wrong," he stumbled over to the table. "I'm smarter than her."

"Umm," he tried to keep the test away from his dad. "No, it's fine. I'm done. Thanks though." He shoved the paper sloppily in his bag and darted towards the exit of the kitchen.

Mr. Davis caught his son's arm in an iron grip. "Show me the homework. Now."

Grimacing at the throbbing pain in his arm, Roger obliged. Shaking, he handed the test to his father, expecting the worst.

"A failure? Do you know what happens to little boys who don't study and fail?"

"I did study." Roger's voice was small and quiet.

"Apparently not." He crumpled the paper, throwing it at Roger. "You're to come straight home after school and not go to that Cohen boy's house. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Roger replied, picking up the paper and his bag. He received a hard push in the back from his father, causing him to stumble into the living room. Dropping his bag by the door, he ran upstairs to his room just as the screaming started in the kitchen.

--

"Tango lessons. Do you believe it? They're making me take tango lessons!" Mark had done nothing but complain about the lessons he was taking. It was now December and his Thursdays were spent at photography classes and Tuesdays were spent dancing with a gross girl his parents liked.

"It's not a big deal," Roger reasoned. "You're out of the house for an entire two hours. Who cares what you're doing?"

"Would you like to take tango lessons in my place?"

Roger weighed the options. Truth be told, he would rather be dancing at the Jewish community center dancing that at his house with his parents.

Not wanting to waste the few remaining minutes left of recess, Mark didn't bother waiting for Roger's answer. "My mom suggested it to my dad and he pulled his head out of the Giants game, and _agreed_ with her! He supports this too!" He wouldn't drop the subject. "What could possibly be worse than tango lessons?"

"Gee, Mark, I don't know." Roger was fed up with Mark's complaints when, in truth, his life was so much easier. "Maybe this?" He pointed to the ring around his eye. "Or this?" Roger rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal what looked like a cigarette burn on his upper arm. "Maybe coming home and seeing your dad collapsed on the couch complaining about why the Red Sox game isn't on, even though baseball doesn't start until April and it's December? Seeing the bruises on your mother's face and knowing you can't do anything about it? No, that's not as bad as tango lessons." He crossed his arms and set an angry glare at the wall on the other side of the room.

Luckily for Mark, he didn't have time to respond. The bell rang, forcing both boys into silence.

--

Mark endured his tango lessons for Roger, knowing his situation could be worse. He didn't particularly enjoy being that close to Nanette Himmelfarb, but he'd rather that than numerous bruises.

Over the next month, Mark noticed that Roger was absent from school a lot. Everyday, he brought Roger's homework to his house with an offer to help him catch up with math, their only class together besides homeroom. Roger's mom always accepted her son's books with a smile, and politely told Mark that Roger was too sick to learn about math and that she'd help him. Mark always nodded and asked her to tell Roger to call him. He never did. Whether that was because Roger didn't want to, or his mom never gave him the message, Mark didn't know.

Finally, the phone did ring in a call from Roger's house. Mark answered the phone, but instead of Roger's voice, it was Miss Annie's, Roger's mom. Mark handed the phone to his own mom at the caller's request.

When the phone was hung up, Mrs. Cohen instructed her son to wait in the living room for company. Mark just nodded, knowing that company never came over this late on weekdays. The door opened without a knock and two bodies entered with suitcases.

Although the visitors were unexpected, Mark couldn't help but smile. He hadn't seen Roger in a long time. He could see a view fading bruises, but Mark stood up and wrapped his best friend in a gentle hug, which the older boy gratefully returned.

Mr. Cohen came down to take the bags upstairs. Roger, Mark learned, would be sleeping on Mark's bedroom floor and his mother would stay in the guest bedroom.

Mrs. Cohen led Roger's mom into the kitchen. Mark heard the sounds of the coffee machine, soft crying, and his mother's comforting words come from the kitchen before his father ushered the boys up to bed because it was a school night.

--

The boys were tucked in and settled into their new sleeping arrangements. Mark gave up his bed, opting to sleep on the floor beside Roger. They laid there in silence, Roger's hand gripping Mark's as his body shook.

"He kicked us out," Roger said at last, squeezing Mark's hand. "He kicked my mom and me out of the house."

Mark didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say, but now he knew why the late night company had arrived.

"We're going to move in with my grandmom this weekend," he went on. "She lives on the other side of town though."

"You're still going to school at Wilson, right?" Mark asked, concern evident in his voice. They had started together in kindergarten, they had to finish elementary school together, and then high school.

"My mom said I had the option of finishing there or going to Presley with my cousins," Roger replied. "And I hate my cousins."

Mark smiled. Still gripping Roger's hand, he asked, "So are your parents going to get a divorce?"

"Well, no," he said. "They were never married in the first place, so they just have to break up. My dad doesn't want me, so I get to stay with my mom."

"Oh," he said. "You know you can call here any time. And just talk to me about anything. You know I'm here for you, right?"

Roger nodded. "Yeah, I know." He grinned, changing the subject. "You're still up for teaching me about math right? Because neither me nor my mom get these matrixes."

"Matrices, those are easy," Mark replied. "I'll teach you tomorrow morning."

Roger smiled, knowing his math grade wasn't completely shot anymore know that Mark was going to help him again. "One more question."

"Yeah?"

"How are those tango lessons coming along?" His green eyes danced playfully as they met Mark's narrowed blue.

"Good night, Roger." Mark rolled over a little, looking away.

A moment later, both boys broke out in laughter before they drifted off to sleep, their hands still holding tight.


	9. Eighth Grade

**Notes:** Sorry for not updating in forever. A lot of people have been asking, so I'll just say it now... This fic is going to stay friendship. No slash, sorry.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

Early on in Mark's photography classes, his teacher and parents had noticed his talent with a camera. For his birthday that summer, they had given him a video camera and Cindy had given him a giant box of film. As his eighth grade year progressed, his artistic eye strengthened and his love for filming deepened. It was at this time that his parents began reconsidering sending him to John Wesley High School, where most students from Wilson Junior High attended.

"Mark?" Mr. Cohen called from the bottom of the steps. "Your mother and I would like to talk to you."

Mark, still short and scrawny, appeared at the top of the steps. "Yeah?"

"In the kitchen," his father said.

Mark obeyed, confused as to why he was talking to his parents. They knew about the low test grade he had received in history last week, but they said they weren't going to punish him for one bad score. He couldn't imagine what they wanted. As he sat down in his usual seat, he saw his mother in her chair, looking rather happy.

Pushing a brochure towards him, Mrs. Cohen offered her son a smile. "Your father and I were talking, and we think with your developing talent, it would be smart to send you to an art-based school. Especially if you really want to pursue a career in filmmaking."

Mark stared at the paper, bewildered. He never imagined his parents supporting this. They always thought it was "just a hobby". To Mark, it was so much more. It was a lifestyle – his lifestyle. After all, they were not very supportive of Cindy's childhood dreams to be a Broadway star. Then again, Cindy couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Mark, however, was actually good at what he loved. "You'd really let me go here?" He continued through the pamphlet about Mortimer's Art Academy.

"Nanette's older cousin recently graduated from there," Mr. Cohen mentioned. "It was Rabbi Himmelfarb that mentioned it to us, actually. His nephew was a screenwriting major there."

"Wow." Mark continued to page through, reading of all the benefits of an artistic education at this academy. Because this was an art-focused school, he would not need to take many math and science classes. Although he excelled in these subjects, he was not very fond of them.

"Of course you must apply to attend, but we don't think you'll have a problem getting in," Mrs. Cohen said. "You'll get to make new friends too."

Mark's eyes left the paper immediately. Friends. Roger. Roger wouldn't be going to this place; he would go to Wesley like everyone else.

His father caught onto Mark's reaction. "Now, Mark. Don't turn down this excellent opportunity just because your friends won't be going there. You can still talk to them outside of class, and make new friends."

"I'll think about it," Mark said, with less excitement than he had showed upon hearing about the school.

His parents nodded, allowing him to go back up to his room.

--

Mark didn't tell Roger about his dilemma for a few days. Roger was so excited about being the "big dog" in school and having the freedom to shove younger students in locker (but only when the teachers weren't looking).

"You know the same thing is going to happen to you next year," Mark mentioned after Roger elbowed a sixth grader into his locker. "Or one of these days a kid is going to turn around and punch you in the face."

Roger smirked. "They wouldn't dare. They fear me."

Mark sighed. "Of course." Then he thought about being a lowly freshman at Wesley. With his scrawny figure, he was fair game for being picked on and freshman pranks. "I guess I'm more likely to be bullied next year."

Roger laughed. "They lay one finger on you…" he trailed off, but punched the air for emphasis. "No one hurts my Marky." He ruffled the younger boy's hair.

Mark wriggled away from Roger, attempting to fix his now disheveled hair. "Thanks."

"But high school is going to be fun," Roger said. "The two of us… girls… all sorts of new freedoms."

"Uh, yeah," Mark shifted his backpack uncomfortably.

"What?"

"Can we talk at lunch?"

Roger nodded. "Uh yeah, I guess."

"Okay, well, I'll see you then."

"See you."

Both boys turned and went their separate ways down the hall.

--

Mark arrived in the lunchroom first. His cheese sandwich say untouched on his brown paper bag as he waited for his best friend to arrive. Moments later, another brown bag landed across from Mark on the table, followed by Roger sitting down.

"Hey."

Mark looked up. "Hey Rog."

"What did you want to talk about?" He absentmindedly emptied the contents of his bag, revealing a ham sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a can of Coke.

"Have you ever heard of Mortimer's Art Academy?"

Roger shook his head. "Why? Are you going to take more photography classes there? Or did they finally ask you to start teaching your own."

Both boys laughed. The lighter mood made it harder for Mark to tell Roger. "No, it's like an art-based high school. The focus is more towards music, drawing, writing, photography, and artsy things like that. Not as many core classes, like math and science."

"That sounds like my kind of school," Roger joked.

"My parents and I are looking into it," Mark said, trying to keep his tone as nonchalant as possible.

"Like for extra classes?"

"No, for an actual high school."

Silence fell over the table. Roger looked across the table at Mark. "You mean… you're going to abandon me for high school?"

"No, Roger, it's not like that. We can still be friends. Lots of people split up before high school and stay friends."

"You know I had the option of going to Presley to finish grade school last year," Roger said. "They have a great music department. I would have gone to Jenkins for high school too. But I didn't. I decided to stay here because I thought that it would make my parents split up a little easier. And I thought it would be cool to finish all of school with my best friend. We started in kindergarten, why not go all the way through?"

"Rog, I'm just thinking about my future."

"Of course." He shoved the rest of his lunch back into the bag before standing up. "When you're finished thinking about _your_ future, think about what I just said. Okay?" And with that, he stormed off to his next class, leaving Mark to finish eating alone.

--

Mark and Roger talked sporadically for the next few weeks. For Mark, it was a blur of putting together a portfolio, filling out an application, and being interviewed by the prestigious academy his parents wanted him to attend.

In late February, Mark received his letter of acceptance, along with a half tuition scholarship. His parents, naturally, we very proud of Mark and his accomplishments. But Mark couldn't even enjoy the chocolate chip cake his mother baked for him in celebration. The small party was more depressing than enjoyable, especially since Roger turned down the invitation to join in the celebration.

Before Mark knew it, March arrived and the deadline to choose a high school was only days away. Roger had yet to forgive Mark for considering attending a different high school than he.

Mark's face never seemed to smile anymore and it had been awhile since anyone had heard him laugh. His parents were growing concerned.

"How's Roger?" Mark's mom asked at dinner. "I miss seeing him stop by the house all the time. He's such a nice boy."

"We haven't really talked much," Mark said, stirring his peas around on his plate.

"Is something going on between you too?" she pried.

He shrugged. "You know, I've been thinking about things," he began. "And maybe going to Mortimer's isn't the best option for me."

Mr. Cohen looked up from his chicken. "Why is that?"

"Well, the emphasis isn't really placed on the academic courses necessary for college. I was thinking of going Ivy League, like you Dad." His dad perked up a bit at that statement. "Besides, I can take as many art classes as I want in college and maybe my mind will change about my future. Maybe I'll want to be a doctor like you." Mark didn't really mean that, but he knew mentioning following his father's footsteps would work to his advantage. Maybe he would change his career objective later on. After all, he wasn't really supposed to have his life planned out at twelve.

"Are you saying you're going to turn down that scholarship to attend the regular, public high school?"

"But Dad, don't you want me to be happy?"

--

As graduation neared, Roger still wasn't talking to Mark. He didn't want to end the year on bad terms with his best friend. As the final bell rang, releasing both boys from math class, Mark hurried down the hall to Roger's locker in an attempt to make amends.

"Hey," Mark began the conversation.

Roger looked up, but didn't say anything. He went back to tossing a few more books into his backpack.

"I just wanted to know if you got your roster for next year," Mark tried again.

"Why? So you can rub it in my face that I have to take math and history while you're taking pictures and calling it art?"

A tinge of hurt flashed in Mark's ice blue eyes. "I was just wondering if we had any classes together." His voice was quiet.

"How could we have…" he trailed off as realization hit him. "You mean you…?"

Mark nodded, smiling a little. "What fun is high school if you can't share the good times with your best friend?"

Roger smiled too, wrapping the scrawny blond in a giant bear hug. For once, Mark didn't mind momentarily losing the ability to breathe.


	10. Ninth Grade

Notes: Hi. I'm not dead, I promise. Sorry this took forever.  
Disclaimer: I don't own Rent.

* * *

For Roger, high school was everything wonderful that he could imagine. Except for one thing. He still didn't have a girlfriend. While Mark was more excited about joining the art club and the varied electives, Roger joined the school band and sought out a girl.

Over the summer, every awkward thirteen year old girl from grade school had discovered make up and fashion magazines. They had changed enough even for Mark to notice and enough to attract almost all of Roger's attention.

Three weeks into his high school career, Roger slumped against Mark's neighboring locker as his best friend packed his books. When Mark didn't look up at the loud noise of Roger's body making contact with the locker, he let out a dramatic sigh for emphasis.

This time, Mark looked up. "What's wrong with you?"

"The freshmen dance is in two weeks and I still don't have a date or a girlfriend."

"Have you actually asked anyone yet?"

Roger opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Mark was right; he was too shy to actually ask a girl out. "Do you have a date?"

Mark shook his head. "Nah. I was thinking of asking Nanette, since we, you know, bonded over tango lessons."

"Aww someone's got a crush!" Roger taunted.

"No!" Mark cried defensively. "We'd being going as friends. I just…" he paused. "I just don't know how to ask her."

Roger looked around, spying two familiar faces from grade school. "Watch and learn." He made his way toward them.

"Whoa, wait," Mark grabbed his arm. "I thought you hated her."

"That was third grade, Mark," Roger rolled his eyes. "And besides, she's hot now."

Mark rolled his eyes, but watched his friend go over toward Maureen Johnson and her friend April Ericcson. He stood far enough to not look obvious, but close enough to hear everything.

"Hey," Roger leaned against the locker next to Maureen's, flashing a smile.

"Oh, hi. Roger right?"

"Mm, yep that's me." He pretended that his ego wasn't shot to the ground. "I was wondering if you wanted to go to the dance with me?"

"Actually, I kind of wanted to go with someone else…" she looked at the ground awkwardly.

"Who?"

She looked over at Mark, who's eyes quickly diverted towards the ground. "Hey Mark?"

He looked up, making eye contact with Maureen.

"Do you want to go to that dance with me?"

Mark's eyes widened behind his black glasses. He began nodding, barely managing a yes as his brain tried to comprehend that such a pretty and popular girl would look his way.

"Great, I was really hoping we could go together," she walked over toward him. She scrawled something onto a piece of paper from the notebook in her hand and handed it to Mark. "Call me, okay?" Turning to Roger, she said, "I'm really sorry Rog, but I already have a date."

"Nah, it's fine," he looked away. "I could have take any girl I wanted." He walked away, leaving behind a bewildered Mark and the two girls.

--

"That was smooth," Mark teased as the boys sat down for lunch later that day.

Roger glared at him. "I could have any girl I wanted. Besides, I didn't _really_ want to take Maureen. I was just using her as an example."

"Right," Mark replied. "It was an excellent example. I learned a lot."

"Shut up."

Mark laughed and emptied the contents of his brown paper bag onto the table. He separated his cheese sandwich, apple juice, and his snack of Goldfish crackers and cream cheese on the table.

"Are you _really_ going to eat that together?"

"What?" Mark quickly dipped a Goldfish into the cream cheese and tossed it in his mouth.

"That. Eww." Roger crinkled his nose in disgust.

"Have you ever tried it?" Mark asked.

Roger shook his head.

"Then, obviously, you have no idea what it tastes like and how wonderful it is."

Rolling his eyes, he responded, "Right. I have to go… study." He stood up and left the cafeteria.

Mark watched him leave quizzically, wondering what Roger was up to. Roger never studied.

--

Before long, only a week was left until the big dance. Mark had recently been informed that Maureen's dress was red and white and he was debating on what color corsage to get her.

"Can you just shut up about all of this?" Roger snapped.

"What? Just pick one: red or white."

"No, this stupid dance." Roger crossed his arms and frowned.

"Do you have a date yet?"

Roger was silent.

"Do you?"

"No," he muttered.

"You could ask Maureen's friend. She doesn't have a date yet."

"Who?"

"April. You know, the girl with the red hair."

"Oh."

"What? She's cute."

"Well, yeah, I mean, if you're into red hair and all."

"Hey!" Mark cried. "I was a redhead when I was a baby. Then I turned blond."

Roger sighed. "Are you sure she doesn't have a date and she'll say yes?"

"I think she's just as desperate as you are."

"I am not desperate."

"Whatever you say." Mark couldn't help but laugh as Roger stormed off in search of April.

--

The night of the dance had finally arrived. During the school day, the entire freshmen class was bursting with excitement. The upperclassmen sneered at them, knowing through experience that the dance really wasn't that much fun.

Mr. Cohen had offered to drive the two couples to the dance in his large van, or what Roger dubbed The Loser Cruiser.

In the end, Mark went with the red corsage, which Maureen fawned over as he awkwardly slipped it over her wrist. Roger had also bought a red corsage for April. It was closer to pinkish-red and clashed with her red hair and green dress.

The cafeteria had been transformed into a beautiful undersea world.

"Wow, April," Maureen commented with a giggle, "with your pretty dress and red hair, you almost look like Ariel."

April smiled and spun around; the skirt of billowing green dress flowed around her legs. "Thanks."

"Actually, you kind of reminded me of a Christmas tree," Roger remarked. April's smile faded and Maureen's giggling stopped.

"Uh, wanna sit down?" Mark broke the awkward silence before it started.

The group nodded in agreement and shuffled over to an empty table with bowls of pretzels and chips on each one. After twenty minutes of listening to Roger's semi-funny jokes, a slow song came on.

"Marky, we should dance!" Maureen grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor.

Once they were gone, an awkward silence fell over the table. Roger reached into a bowl of pretzels and tossed a few in the air. All of them missed his mouth.

Midway through the slow song, April asked, "Did you want to ask me something?"

Roger looked at her quizzically. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh," she said. April tapped her fingers on the table.

"Look at all those losers out there dancing," Roger observed.

"I know," she replied sarcastically. "Who goes to a dance to dance?"

"Only losers. Hey, where are you going?" Roger asked when he noticed April starting to stand up.

"I'm going to dance." She walked away from the table, leaving Roger alone.

--

"Why are you so happy?" Roger asked when the boys were back at Mark's house.

"Tonight was really fun. Why? Didn't you have fun?"

"Pfft. No. Dances aren't fun unless you hook up or something."

Mark didn't answer.

"You kissed Maureen!" Roger cried loudly. Too loudly for Mark's liking.

"Jealous?" Mark grinned.

Roger's face contorted. "No! I've kissed plenty of girls."

"Oh yeah? Who?"

Roger was silent. "Well…"

Mark grinned. "I got my first kiss before you." He was almost proud of himself. He never expected to be more experienced than Roger, especially in this area.

"Well, what's it like?" Roger asked sheepishly.

Mark grinned wickedly. "Find out for yourself."

"Oh come on!"

"No. It's… personal." Mark failed to mention how awkward it was, but he didn't really want Roger to know about his fumbling.

Roger sighed. "Now you have a girlfriend so you won't want to hang out with me."

"What? Maureen isn't my girlfriend. I don't really like her that way."

"Oh."

"And besides, even if she was my girlfriend, I would still want to hang out with you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'd rather have a best friend than a girlfriend any day."

Roger smiled. "Thanks Marky." He wrapped the smaller boy in a hug.

"Hey, did you want to go down to the dark room with me later tomorrow to pick up a few pictures?"

"I can't," Roger replied. "I have to go home first thing. My mom said she had something important to tell me. I think it's about that guy she's been dating."

"Oh. We could go later. There's some pictures I thought you'd like."

"Yeah sure. I'll come over as soon as my mom tells me whatever it is she wants to tell me."

"Knowing you, you'll be gone ten minutes."

"Knowing what my mom usually has to tell me, it'll be the longest ten minutes of my life."

They both laughed. "You'll miss me. That's why the ten minutes will be so long."

Roger laughed. "It'll be unbearable."

And with that, the boys went to sleep with the anticipation of Mark's photography and Roger's mom's big news.


End file.
